


The Acme of Skill

by thrace



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:58:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrace/pseuds/thrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka and H.G., f-i-g-h-t-i-n-g.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Acme of Skill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pirateygoodness for girlsgunsfic on LJ.

The logistical problems of integrating H.G. with the warehouse team are a nightmare.

There's the most obvious problem, that of having a British national presenting herself as a Secret Service agent. Legally she's sound; the Regents have already arranged for her dual citizenship. But in the field, they've received not a few lingering stares, and finally Pete has to suggest H.G. just murmur something about Scotland Yard whenever she's asked. He's also bought a deerstalker hat, magnifying glass, and pipe, leaving his self-amused motives transparent. Still, it works, which leaves them free to hurdle other obstacles.

Her first week, H.G. has to take a quick jaunt to London to get all of her things sorted for transport back to the States. Myka offers to go with her, but she waves it off. There'll be a regent and a security team there, just to make sure everything they ship is benign. It'll take a good two days, perhaps three, and in the meantime Myka will probably be bored. She sees a protest forming on Myka's face but ignores it, trying not to think of sharing a long weekend in London with her. At home, all she can think of is pointing out all the things Myka would like, of taking her to H.G.'s favorite chippie, perhaps gate-crashing at the Arts Club.

After London there's the new warehouse manual, updated with a century's worth of regulations and emergency procedures, including a neutralizer decontamination drill that Artie insists they actually perform instead of simulate. Several days later H.G. still hasn't found all the bits of goo left on and in her body. There are evacuation routes to practice and security protocols to memorize as well, far beyond the old standby of "know your exits and hope for the best." Somehow none of it is very reassuring.

Claudia and Pete delightedly take over cultural acclimatization, which seems to mean eager plans for movie marathons, starting with the original Star Wars trilogy—which of course means an extended wrapping paper cardboard tube/lightsaber fight through Leena's, ending with a broken fruit bowl and Leena standing over the much-chastised duo as they vacuum up clay shards.

And then there's the matter of tactical training. It's not long before Myka insists she undergo hand-to-hand evaluation, to be carried out by Myka herself. H.G. is almost offended but holds her tongue, anticipating the complete surprise on Myka's face as she is dumped onto her own derriere. So she accepts with a smile and an assurance that she wouldn't miss it for the world. She, who's studied kenpo and fencing for half her life, who's brawled with some of the best London's back alleys once had to offer, will be just fine in a one-on-one with Myka Bering.

There's a small, bare room downstairs that looks out onto the backyard. Leena converted it from an old sunroom, installing light wooden paneling and equipping it with mats and bags. H.G. knows that Myka likes it almost as much as the library because, like the library, it's a warm, quiet space and Pete and Claudia both know better than to intrude uninvited. A few times in passing she's seen Myka teaching Claudia here, positioning her arms and legs, patiently demonstrating the moves. But both Myka and Pete seem so intensely protective of her, H.G.'s never bothered to join them; she's been trying very hard not to step on the family dynamic already in place.

She comes down to the dojo early on Saturday morning, looking forward to a bit of exercise before breakfast. She tugs absentmindedly on the hem of her loose-fitting shirt before she enters, wishing she'd had time to go shopping for better sporting gear; as it is, it's either a button-down and linen pants or her brother's old cricketing clothes, and Charles' things have never fit her well. Myka is already inside, legs split in a long stretch on the floor.

"Morning," she says brightly, before bending at the waist and lowering her chest nearly to the floor.

H.G. traces the curve of her spine up to the nape of her neck, the flats of her shoulder blades. Sunlight pours through the east-facing windows, soaking Myka with gold. "Good morning," she says, and clears her throat a little.

"Ready to start?"

"Always," says H.G. confidently--cockily.

Myka reaches for one bare foot, then the other, the sinews in her arms standing out, the edge of her tank top riding up just enough to hint at skin. "Take off your shoes," she says.

H.G. complies, wiggling her toes a little on the warm wood before stepping onto the mat. She tests its give with a bounce; thick enough to absorb a hard landing, not soft enough to really take away the sting of impact. SHe swings her arms loosely, getting her blood flowing, shifting her mind into the right mode, the kind that leads to winning. From what she's seen, H.G. figures that Myka has reach and strength on her, but H.G. might have the edge in speed. She's never been chosen for her muscle, she might as well admit it, so she's found myriad ways of compensating, some of them involving a bit of cheating—she'd rather win a fight dishonorably than die with her honor intact. She has agility and speed and her wits, and that's almost always been enough for her. Almost.

Myka pushes to her feet, a smooth unfurling of muscle and bouncing of ponytail that has H.G. looking away for composure. Despite her black tank top and matching pair of soft pants, she's never seemed more inviting. "I thought we'd just go over takedowns and restraints today," says Myka, now bracing each arm across her body, stretching them one at a time.

"I can't imagine things have changed much," says H.G., watching Myka with her hands on her hips. She continues with a hint of sing-song. "A knockdown is a knockdown."

"You'd be surprised," says Myka, her voice suspiciously neutral. She bounces on the balls of her feet a few times, then gestures for H.G. to join her at center mat, settling into a well-balanced ready pose, albeit with an encouraging smile.

At first H.G. stays just out of reach, getting the measure of Myka. Myka does not offer any jabs or play with her personal space, just stays focused, circling at the same distance. H.G. tries a little bobbing and weaving, remembering the fisticuffs of her childhood with Charles. Myka isn't having it, so H.G. closes in quickly to take her by surprise and get in under her reach--and suddenly there's a hand beneath her chin, shoving her head backwards, another hand at her back, pushing her hips in the opposite direction. Her body, unable to coordinate between the opposing forces, crumples to its knees. Somehow Myka flows around her, winding up behind H.G. as she falls, hands wrenching her head just hard enough that H.G. is forced to follow momentum and flip onto her stomach. A knee sinks into the small of her back and a hand presses her face into the mat. She is well and truly pinned.

"Well," says H.G., words half-muffled by vinyl. "That was certainly dramatic."

Myka is breathing lightly, and there's no mistaking the playfulness in her voice. "I just didn't want you thinking I didn't have anything to teach you," she says.

H.G. scoffs, the very picture of indignation. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Just making sure."

There's a long beat before H.G. speaks again. "Myka."

"Yes."

H.G. wiggles her hips as much as she can, which is not very much at all. "You can let me up now."

"Oh, right." Myka stands up and pulls H.G. with her, her fingers sliding momentarily against H.G.'s wrist and palm. H.G. involuntarily clenches her hand into a fist as Myka lets go.

"I suppose," says H.G., "That there have been some advances in the martial arts."

"We're the Secret Service," says Myka, not a little smug. "We take our job pretty seriously."

H.G. rolls her shoulders, one after the other, in an attempt to make her body stop throbbing from the impact. "Well then," she says, and plows into Myka with her best rugby tackle. As soon as they hit the mat, Myka with a great whoomp of escaping air, H.G. scrambles up her body, pinning both shoulders with her knees. She is about to crow out her victory when she feels Myka's torso tense under her, and then a pair of legs are wrapping around her neck and dragging her backwards. Myka slides laterally on the mat until she has both legs hooked over H.G.'s chest, with H.G.'s arm trapped between her thighs. She grabs H.G.'s hand and hyperextends her arm, leaving very little doubt that she can snap the appendage in half if she so desires. Once again, H.G. is a little stunned at the quickness of it all. Never mind where her arm is--even if Myka's thighs are delightfully firm--she's been taken by surprise twice in a row now. It's as infuriating as it is alluring.

"Do you give?" asks Myka. She punctuates the question with a tug.

"What are my options?" asks H.G. in return, focusing on keeping her tone conversational and not straining against the discomfort in her elbow.

Myka's response is to apply a few more pounds of pressure.

"I'm only saying," H.G. begins, breathing choppily through the pain, "There's no shame in admitting defeat."

"So admit defeat."

"I will when you will."

Myka's grip slackens in the wake of her confusion. "What?"

It's just enough for H.G. to yank free and roll clear. She rises up on her knees, fists held up, ready to pop Myka right in the bread basket if necessary. But Myka rolls in the opposite direction and climbs to her feet. She dusts off her front, glowering at H.G. "If you want me to yield, you'll have to earn it," says H.G., not quite playful, not entirely serious.

"Fine," says Myka, her voice cut down to its lower register. It makes H.G. swallow in anticipation. Myka cracks her neck. "You wanna play? Let's play."

*

Pete finds them in the dojo an hour later. "Hey guys, breakfast's been ready for like ten minutes, and you know I can't wait when chocolate-chip waffles are at…stake…" He trails off as he walks around the edge of the door. "What. The hell."

H.G. is face-down on the mat; Myka is on her back, half on top of H.G, feebly trying to keep her from getting up. H.G.'s attempts are equally as feeble, and mostly get her about a quarter of an inch of wiggle room before her arms give out beneath her again. Myka has a cut lip, H.G. a swollen left eye that will no doubt leave behind a magnificent shiner.

"What have you guys been doing all morning?" asks Pete, now sounding less mystified and more amused as he pieces it together.

"Tell Leena we'll be right there," says Myka, ignoring the question.

"Yes, and don't let Claudia take all the strawberries," says H.G., though it comes out more like in doon leh Clawa tay aw uh sraw'ees, mashed up as her mouth is.

Pete, who's done his fair share of talking through a full mouth, doesn't miss a thing. "I'm pretty sure the main attraction's in here, though," he says, folding his arms like he's about to settle in.

H.G. finally manages one last Herculean heave, flipping Myka off and flat onto her stomach. They lie side by side, like a pair of beached dolphins. "Don't be ridiculous," she says, panting. "We'll be along in a moment."

"Yeah, but—"

"Go away Pete," says Myka from her spot on the mat.

He raises his hands in the air to admit defeat. "Fine. But you know I never let waffles go cold."

As soon as his footsteps have faded, H.G. nudges Myka's arm. "Anything else for today's lesson?"

There's a scramble of movement; before H.G. can possibly respond, Myka's weight settles on her rear. Her wrists are stacked together and there's a high-pitched zip. Somewhere, somehow, Myka has found a zip tie and used it to truss her up. She makes a sound of outraged protest. "This is hardly fair!"

"Now you want to talk about playing fair?" asks Myka. She makes no move to get off of H.G., instead planting both hands on her back. When she shifts, it almost feels like a massage, and so H.G. is content to let her stay. Also, she has a policy never to complain about being perched upon by gorgeous women, irrespective of how they got there.

"The thing about cheaters is that we like rules when they're on our side," says H.G. She tries to buck Myka off, but she hasn't the strength or the energy, and Myka rides her back down to the mat with ease.

Myka snorts when they've settled again. "Well, at least you're an honest cheat." She finally pushes off of H.G., but otherwise makes no further attempts to touch her, instead shuffling around the dojo. It makes H.G. feel rather like a fish at market, lying there while Myka makes satisfied stretching noises. But it's not the first time H.G.'s had to maneuver with her hands tied behind her back--a certain young Mr. Weisz had seen to that, and she'd been sure to repay him in kind--and she's willing to bet Myka used up her last reserve of energy to get the jump on H.G. So she rolls over, sits up, and unfolds her legs to stand upright. Every part of her body hurts--there isn't a single joint that Myka hasn't locked into place and pushed to its breaking point, nor is there a single soft spot that hasn't hit the mat hard enough to jar her skeleton out of alignment. Her only consolation is in not yielding, and she'll be damned if she lets the morning end in ignominious defeat.

H.G. exhales softly, and then with a high and tight jump, hopscotches her own wrists so that they are now in front of her. She tries to sneak up on Myka, who is facing the door and not paying attention to the supposed non-threat behind her. But she hears the slight thump of H.G.'s escape and whirls half around just as H.G.'s hands loop over her head. Her eyes go comically wide, arms automatically coming up to ward off the ambush--but it's far too late. Their legs tangle and H.G., who'd intended to pull Myka backwards, instead topples them both to the ground. Myka just barely manages to brace herself to absorb some of the impact, but H.G. still gets half her body weight and all the air whooshes out of her lungs.

"Shit, H.G.," says Myka, trying to disentangle the two of them without any real success.

H.G. moans, trying to get her eyes to unroll out of the back of her sockets, coughing while her lungs re-inflate. "That was ill-advised," she says.

Myka stops fussing and just slumps onto H.G. And then she starts laughing; a little quiver of vibration at first, and then full-throated belly laughing that shakes her entire body and H.G.'s with it. H.G. has never heard her laugh like this, or indeed much at all, and she's amazed by the open, joyous sound. She should lift her arms up to let Myka go, but she doesn't want to, she wants to hold on to this laughing, sweaty woman for as long as she can. She wants to feel Myka's stomach muscles pulsing rhythmically, her legs flailing a little, her nose tucked into the crook of H.G.'s neck. She wants to lie in this warm patch of sunlight and enjoy sensations that remind her that it's possible to be free and happy and alive.

"In that case," says H.G. directly into Myka's ear, "I yield."


End file.
